Tree Topping
by Ahmerst
Summary: A sweet, fluffy tale of Russia and America decorating a Christmas tree. Bad jokes abound. You have been warned.


Russia wondered if it was possible for his ears to fall off as he trundled after America. It was cold outside, too cold. Even by his standards, ridiculously cold. At first his ears had started to hurt from it, a steady, biting pain that refused to leave. But then they just stopped hurting all together, and Russia thought they were either numb or simply gone. He kind of regretted handing his ear muffs over to America, but then he looked up to see America staring at him, eyes wide and happy and almost a little wild. His regrets melted away into a smile.

"This tree is the best tree," America announced. The tree he stood before was several times his height and then some.

"America, that will not fit through your door."

"It won't?"

"No."

"Huh," America said.

Russia held a hand up to his eyes, tried to shield them from the bleak whiteness that surrounded them. He caught sight of a tree that looked to be an almost reasonable size. Big enough to sate America's tastes, but not so large that it would kiss the ceiling.

"How about that one?" Russia said, pointing a free hand towards the tree he had picked out.

"That one? I dunno. It looks like a baby. A little, tiny, baby tree." He cocked his head to the side prettily, hands on his hips as he debated his options.

"Maybe a baby tree would be best this year."

America threw a glance over his shoulder, and Russia was quite sure he was batting his eyelashes like that on purpose. "You think so?" And then he smiled in a way that pushed all of Russia's buttons at once, and Russia became aware that he did in fact still have ears, because they were burning again. But not in an unpleasant way.

"Yes," Russia said, in an awed, bewildered sort of way. His bewilderment grew as he watched America try to pull the tree up by its roots. He could only stand by in amazement at the scene.

* * *

Somehow, between having eyelashes batted at him, watching a tree being uprooted by hand, and tying it to the sled they'd brought along, Russia found himself roped into dragging everything home. Including America. America had made an offhanded remark that his feet hurt, and Russia had jokingly suggested he straddle the tree, hitching a free ride home. Instead of laughing, America had cheerily agreed.

Russia made a note to work on his joke-telling. But then, after hearing the soft engine-like noises America was making as they went along, Russia thought that maybe it wasn't such a bad deal after all. He could, of course, use it for leverage later. America had promised, sounding both stunningly serious and happy at the same time, that they'd spend _hours_ decorating the tree.

While Russia liked the idea of decorating, and even more so the idea of doing such an activity with America, engaging in it for exorbitant amounts of time seemed to be a poor use of their time together. It could be better spent, perhaps in front of a roaring fire, or staring into each other's eyes. Not that America was very good at the latter. He had a tendency to get fidgety and wriggle about until he was so close Russia's eyes couldn't focus right. It all ended with America swiping a quick kiss before rearing back, starting the cycle over again.

Russia hummed happily at the thought of their 'game'. Perhaps he would help America with the tree-decorating process, if only to hurry things along and get himself some of America's so called 'brownie points'. He liked to get those. They meant extra hugs and kisses, and, if he racked up enough, a little bit of what America liked to call 'hanky-panky'.

Russia liked this 'hanky-panky' best of all.

"What'cha thinkin' about?" America said, his voice drilling through Russia's thoughts.

"Hank─" Russia said, before his manners kicked in and he bit down on his tongue. And not in the metaphorical way, either.

"─Baskett?" America finished. "Yeah, now _there's_ something to think about. Man, that guy has talent coming out his ears."

"Yes," Russia agreed. He didn't know who this Baskett fellow was, but he wasn't about to ask questions.

The rest of the journey home was uneventful. The mention of Mr. Baskett had gotten America talking, mainly about sports and the people who played it. He spoke of his favorite teams, favorite numbers, and even players. Russia found himself tuning out, letting the words blur into a sweet, melodic noise. It was like having his own sound track when America was like this, all talkative and cute and lovely to listen to.

When the house came into sight, America hopped off the sled and ran ahead, feet kicking up pale drifts of snow as he went. Russia watched the spray of white, traced America's steps with his eyes before tracing them with his feet. By the time he reached the door, it was wide open and America was standing at attention in the frame, only too happy to usher Russia in.

Russia stared at the doorway. He stared at the tree. One of them seemed larger than the other. Russia closed his eyes and sighed. He had taken to thinking like America, enjoying the grander things in life, even when he couldn't accommodate them. Today it was a tree, but tomorrow and beyond could bring more. Huge trucks, mansions with too many rooms, and meals ten times the size of his stomach.

"America," he said, opening his eyes to find America already standing before him, a cheeky grin on his face. "This tree is much too big."

"Oh shucks, it is not," America argued happily. "And you already said you liked it. Do you even know how long I was waiting for you to finally pick one out?" He squeezed past Russia, inspecting the tree. "It'll fit, we just gotta give it a good shove."

"You were waiting for me to pick one?"

"Well, duh," America gave Russia a quick peck on the cheek. "You're my guest after all. And I wanted something that would make _you_ happy."

Russia's heart thudded in his chest, beat warmly against his rib cage. America was too much at times. Too much love and kindness and unadulterated sweetness. The way he considered others, played to their whims and desires without trying to draw attention to the fact. It made Russia's heart beat all that much harder.

As America was wont to be, he shattered the moment by whooping as he shoved the tree through the doorway. Russia's senses snapped back to him in time for him to see the spectacle. First the tree was outside, very much so, and then it wasn't. It was stuck in the door and hemorrhaging pine needles onto a pine floor. He looked to America to find him already looking back.

"Mind lending a hand, big guy?" America said, nodding at the tree. "Like, grab the top. Or something."

Russia went around to the top of the tree and grabbed the tip.

"Good," America said. "When I push, you pull, got it?"

Before Russia could assure America that, yes, he did understand the concept, America pushed. Russia knew America pushed because he suddenly felt a searing stab of pain in his gut as the tree did its best to puncture his belly. He didn't even have time to think about pulling before he was sprawled on his back, one hand instinctively clutched at his stomach. He barely registered the sound of America dropping to his knees besides him.

"Oh my God, I should have done a countdown," America was saying. "But I didn't and now I bet you're going to _die._"

"America, I am not going to die." Russia took a deep breath, let it out through his nose. "It is nothing but a mere annoyance." A throbbing, painful annoyance.

"Yes, I bet you are. I can see it now─ this is your death mask, isn't it? It is, it _so_ is." For all his dramatic words, America didn't sound particularly unhappy. "I guess it's an okay death mask. I mean, I've seen better, but it's not too shabby."

"How can I improve upon my death mask?" He looked up into America's round blue eyes, large and curious and─ yes, they were certainly bordering on amused.

"Cross your eyes. Not a lot, that'd be way obvious."

Russia crossed his eyes.

"Good. I like that, it's a classic look. Now open your mouth and let your tongue loll out."

Russia poked his tongue out the side of his mouth.

"Perfect," America announced. "But actually, now that I think about it, you'll be fine." He reached out, stroked the back of his hand against Russia's cheek. "You are okay, aren't you?" And that time, he didn't sound quite as confident as before. His eyes shone with an anxiety that wasn't previously there.

"I do not think I will make it through the night." Russia let his eyes flutter shut with a dramatic sigh, though he smiled at the end of it.

"Oh no," America gasped, too high and too quick to be genuine. "Good thing I'm a doctor."

"You are?" Russia opened an eye. America nodded profusely.

"Not a licensed one, but I've seen hundreds of doctors on TV."

"Oh. Very well, then." Russia closed his eyes again. "What do you prescribe, Doctor?"

"Seeing as how I am a specialist in treating tree-related injuries, CPR is our best option in this case." He paused, and then corrected himself, "No, wait. I am a specialist in _tree_-ting tree-related injures." He snorted to himself, masking Russia's inappreciative groan. "Okay, but yeah, CPR."

Russia didn't know how CPR was supposed to solve the dull ache in his stomach, but when America pressed their lips together, he didn't complain. Instead he laid back and enjoyed the sensation, kissing America back with an enthusiasm that betrayed his prone state. He breathed in America's soft laughter, tasted the warmth of his lips.

America was a talented doctor, and Russia soon forgot about any lingering discomfort in his midsection.

"All better now?" America asked when he pulled away. His cheeks were flushed an attractive red, his lips invitingly full and curved. His glasses were slightly askew, boyish and cute and heart-stopping.

Russia resolved to have a check-up appointment later.

"Much better. But I may need another dosage soon."

"Not a prob. This pharmacy is open twenty-four hours a day."

It was Russia's turn to laugh, and once he was finished, he gladly accepted the outstretched hand America offered him. He was on his feet in a moment, and looking back to the tree in the next. At least it was inside the house now, even if it looked marginally less full than before.

America appeared to take the setback in stride though, his only concern rather more immediate. "What are we supposed to do about that?" He pointed to the trunk of the tree, and Russia noticed the thick wooden roots that sprouted from it. "I don't think I can fit those in the stand."

"No, I suppose not." Russia wondered if America did this every Christmas.

"Bet'cha I can lop them off with that knife your sis gave me."

While Russia didn't necessarily consider having something hurled at your head an automatic gift, he wasn't about to tell America otherwise. It was better that America thought Belarus an eccentric with a penchant for sharp objects, and a flamboyant way of giving presents.

With a shudder, Russia repressed the memory of how America got his most cherished knife just in time for America to come bumbling back into the room with it. The earmuffs Russia had lent him had slid down, the headband resting on the back of his neck, the muffs at either side on his throat. His steps were excited and bouncy, like a toddler learning to run. Just a really big toddler. One running with a knife.

America dropped to his knees beside the tree, doing his best to chop the errant roots off with heavy strokes. Half the time, the knife merely chipped the wood of the root before glancing off and chipping the wood of the floor. He even lodged it in the floor panels once, stopped to make sure Russia had seen─ and he had, of course, all he ever did when he was around America was look at him─ before going back to his work.

In the end, America settled for sawing off the majority of the roots before dropping the knife with a frustrated huff. "It's good enough," he said. His tone said otherwise.

"Absolutely," Russia said.

He waited until America was out of the room to finish the job. When America returned, he was missing a shoe, the earmuffs completely, and his puffy winter coat was hanging off one shoulder. Peeking above the overflowing box of garlands and lights in America's arms, Russia could see a frustrated glint in his eyes.

Russia recognized that glint, that gleam of boiling energy, compressed and contained, waiting to build up enough pressure to spill over into his words and posture and actions. And he knew why America was bordering on the unkempt suddenly. It seemed as though whenever frustrated, America wanted to do everything at once _ever_. Like riding a galloping horse and putting on a watch at the same time. It was like his body tried to expend its energy all at once using several possible outlets.

The outlets of the day seemed to be changing clothes and hauling boxes loaded with Christmas goodies around. Russia took the sight in with a non-judgemental mind. He loved America right down to his neurotic habits. It probably helped that he knew the best way to handle those habits as well.

"America," he said, as kindly as he could**,** "why not let me put the tree in its stand?"

America set the box down and placed his hands on the small of his back, rubbing away an ache. He looked to the tree, and if he noticed the trunk was much smoother than before, his only acknowledgment was a coquettish smile. "You sure you want to do that, bud?"

"Yes, you finish what you were doing in the mean time."

That was the antidote. Let America finish his already-started tasks, and as long as he didn't start something new, things would be okay. Russia picked up the tree and took it to the stand in the corner of the room, all the while keeping an eye on America. Not because he was getting undressed, oh no, of course not, Russia was a polite man after all. He just wanted to make sure America didn't pick up yet another task_._

It made setting up the tree a good deal harder, but in the end he was able to bolt it in place without too much banging about, and had America in a much more relaxed mood. He'd managed to shed his coat and the other shoe, along his a few layers he'd bundled underneath and had taken to untangling Christmas lights while sprawled on the couch. The gleam in his eyes had turned to one of intense concentration, without a hint of anxiety or nerves.

"What would you like for Christmas?" Russia found himself asking as he went to America, reaching out a hand to run through his soft blond hair. America tilted his head into the touch before raising his legs and motioning for Russia to sit, letting them drop back down in Russia's lap once Russia had done so.

"You really wanna know?" His pale pink tongue darted out to lick his lips, his fingers fumbled with the tiny, colored bulbs.

"Most certainly." Russia pet America's shins thoughtfully.

"More arms," America said, without looking up from his work. "Like six or something. I mean, if I had four, I wouldn't be all upset about it, but six is the magic number. Eight would be ridiculous, though."

"And why so many arms?"

America did look up then, blue eyes peering over gold-rimmed glasses. He smiled sweetly. "Because then I could hug you better."

Russia waited for America to laugh, waited for America to play the request off as a childish joke, tell Russia how what he really wanted was an honest-to-God fighter jet painted with stars and stripes. But he didn't laugh, didn't hint that he was anything but serious. Russia felt his heart squeeze, flutter, and quietly expire.

"Oh," Russia said, and he really, really wished that he could give America what he wanted, even if he knew better.

"How about you, big guy?"

Russia floundered in his mind. He didn't want anything physical, not cars nor money, neither sweets nor sweater. He thought about what America had asked for. _Arms_. And not to better juggle or do party tricks, but to hug better. Russia knew he could never say something anywhere near that and get away with it. America was not creepy. He was happy and bubbly and nothing he said could ever be thought of as creepy. Weird, yes. But in an endearing way.

As for Russia, he thought about asking for another pair of eyes. Maybe on the back of his head. Then he could always look at America, even when he was facing him. But then he figured he wouldn't have the sweet eloquence that would make such a request not sound like something a fairy tale monster would want.

"I do not know yet," was what he said instead.

"As if, I bet you're afraid to say what you want. I bet you want _me_."

"I want you on an hourly basis," Russia said flatly. "And you know I am not afraid to ask."

"Touché," America said. "But you know I'm always yours. Always and forever. Couldn't get rid of me if you tried. Hell, even if I died I would so haunt your ass." America kicked his legs playfully.

Russia smiled, smoothed out a wrinkle that had wormed its way into America's jeans, and hummed a few bars of a happy-sounding song. America joined in, though with a completely different tune. They continued to exchange bits and pieces of song until America had straightened out most of the lights.

"I bet you none of these lights will work."

"I do not make bets I know I will win."

"You're on─ wait, what? That doesn't even make sense." America roused himself to plug a string of lights into the socket, frowned slightly when they lit up. "Guess it's a good thing we didn't make it a bet, then."

Russia nodded sagely, his thoughts already one step ahead. "America, I must admit I am feeling quite tired after pulling you and the tree home."

America looked over his shoulder, his face etched with an instantaneous empathy. "Are you getting sick?" He turned from the tree and rushed back to Russia, who was still sitting on the couch. "You just lay down, alright? I'll make you coffee or something. Whatever you want, okay? Let me go get some blankets."

"Shhh, America," Russia soothed. "I am merely tuckered out. If you would be so kind to allow me to regain my strength, I am sure I will be well in no time."

America worried his lower lip, a wrinkle appearing between his brows as they creased in concern. "Yeah. That sounds good. You chill and I'll do tree-things. Shucks, you can be, like, a supervisor. It'll be fun, don't you think?"

"Of course."

America smiled shyly. He always had been a sucker for approval. "I'll make it the best tree you've ever seen, promise."

And with that, he turned back to the tree, blithely unaware of its bald spots and broken limbs, content to drape string after string of lights on it, wrapping garish garlands about its girth and singing softly to himself the entire time. When he had finished with the lights, he took to hanging up the ornaments.

He pored over each one, testing out multiple limbs and placements before settling for a spot. He spoke to them like children, encouraging them to hang correctly, or keep themselves steady. The ornaments had no interest in obeying, and seemed content to droop sadly on the mangled branches.

"Does this look okay to you?" America asked, stepping away from the tree to give Russia a good look.

The tree was magnificent. Every inch was covered with glowing bulbs, streaked with silver tinsel, and bending under the weight of the ornaments. Each color was represented, from the rich mauve of the sugar plums, to the delicate blues of the the Scrub Jays that perched skillfully on the branches, each as still and perfect as the next.

The only color the appeared to be missing was red. But missing wasn't quite the correct word. There was a candy cane or two, a small stocking tucked away, but it was underrepresented among the others. As though America were avoiding that select bit of the spectrum, shying away from it, almost.

"It is a lovely tree, America," Russia said. "But do you not think it could use more red?"

America paused, eyes flitting back to the tree, then to Russia. His face took on an expression Russia had never seen before, except it really wasn't he would call an expression. He imagined it was what a face would look like if the owner had been brought up with no interaction from other humans, no introduction to the different ways their face and muscles could move, pinch and wrinkle. It was rather ghastly looking, ashen and forlorn and possibly a little taken aback.

"You think the tree should have more red?"

Instantly seeing the mistake in his request, Russia's innards cringed. "Only a tiny bit more."

"So, basically, you want a Red tree? Heck, I bet you want me to put it in Red Square. Would that be Red enough for you?"

Russia pinched the bridge of his nose. He'd never known anyone to be so sensitive over a single color. Not to mention that the Red Square's name had nothing to do with _that_ kind of red. He'd explained it to America a thousand times before, but the information never stuck. Russia's more reasonable side kicked into action.

"That is not the red I mean, America. I have only noticed there is so much blue and white already. And stars, even. I thought you would merely like to complete the colors of your flag." _And the colors of mine_.

America's expression melted away into something sweet and apologetic. "Oh. That makes sense."

He went back to his decorating without another word, dotting the tree with smidges of red. Russia relaxed, his body melting into the sofa as he watched. His gaze became locked on America's movements, hypnotized and soothed by his careful steps, the way he swayed his hips to some unknown song, and his habit of indulging in short, jaunty jigs while standing in place. It was all very charming, really, and it put Russia at ease to an extent he hardly experienced these days.

He only noticed he'd nodded off when America brought it to his attention.

"Hey, sleepy bear," America cooed, his face mere inches from Russia's. Russia started, made to make an apology, but America swooped in for a kiss before he could, pulling back with a giggle.

"Ah, hello my little sunflower." America's cheeks colored at that. "I am sorry, I must have dozed off."

"Nah, only for like a sec or two. But don't worry, I'm almost done. And you know what that means, don't you?"

Russia rubbed at his eyes. His head seemed to have been stuffed with wads of cotton while he slept. "I am afraid I do not know what that means."

"It means fireside cuddling and cookies." America grinned, all white and even teeth, his nose scrunched with happiness.

Russia blinked and looked to the fireplace. A small fire was eating away at a few strips of kindling, the flame struggling to stay alive.

"It'll get better," America promised. "Scout's honor."

Russia's head bobbed automatically, and he looked back to the tree to watch America hang the finishing touches. That was when he saw _it._

_It_ was in America's hand. Round and fat and red as anything. It also had a fishtail, one that was liberally coated with glitter. The creature had a face, full and jovial and rosy-cheeked. It was, he supposed, meant to be Santa Klaus. A merman Santa Claus. But in reality, it was mind-numbingly horrifying.

Fatty-Santa Mermaid was not going to happen. If it did happen, other things would happen. Like doomsday. Armageddon would descend upon the house, upon the world, and all because of this Christmas ornament. This abomination that only the sickest mind would conjure up. It had to be stopped.

Russia knew what he had to do.

"That ornament is very red," he said airily.

"What?" America said, pausing as he went to hang the monstrosity on a prime bit of arboresque real estate. "Uh, well yeah, I guess it is. Santa's a pretty red guy."

"Yes, but that ornament is inordinately red."

America's head tilted like a confused dog's as he gave Russia a bemused look. Russia sighed, all sense of self-worth spilling out with his breath.

"I cannot help but feel it is so red that it is almost _my_ kind of red." And Russia was red, red with embarrassment. The things he did to preserve good taste, how they pained him.

Stricken, America stared at the ornament. "Oh my God, I think─ I think you're right." He lowered it, placed it on the ground and drew his hands away, fingers curling into his palm. "That's super red. Commie-red."

"It is," Russia agreed. He wished his ears really had fallen off earlier. At least that way he wouldn't be able to hear himself partaking in such an appalling conversation.

America made a gurgling noise. "I just threw up in my mouth a little bit."

Russia's lips pursed, a thin and slightly amused line. "And to think you were the one to accuse me of trying to create a communist tree."

"I was," America said quietly, shamefully. He retreated to the couch, plopping down next to Russia.

"I forgive you." Russia planted a kiss on America's temple, felt his nose nuzzle against the soft golden locks. America's hair smelled nice, like sweet spice and gingerbread.

Or maybe that was just the cookies in the oven Russia was smelling. Either way, the scent made his tongue tingle pleasantly with anticipation. America rested his head on Russia's shoulders, his chest rising and falling with calm, even breaths.

"Isn't this nice?" America said.

"It is," Russia agreed.

He rested his head on America's, threaded their fingers together as they both sat, admiring the tree before them in all of its decked-out, patchy glory. He listened to the soft pop and snap of the fire as it grew, reveled in the scent of cookies baking. And in the quietness of the moment, he nearly drifted off again before America piped up once more.

"Russia," America said suddenly, urgently.

"Yes, America?"

"I think I messed up."

Russia jolted awake. "What is wrong?"

"Look," America whispered harshly. He pointed to the top of the tree.

Russia looked, and he saw nothing amiss. "I still do not understand."

"Don't you get it? That's the problem, it's what's missing." He stood, pulling Russia to his feet as he went. "We need a tree-topper. A tree is nothing without its topper. And you can trust me on that."

Russia decided to trust America with all topics regarding trees. He seemed to consider himself an expert, after all. "What is stopping you from putting a topper on the tree, America?" he asked, more to humor America than anything else.

"Do I look like I have moon boots?" America looked up from the box he was rooting through, his expression serious, almost sullen. As though moon boots were something he really would like to have.

Russia wondered where he could buy these 'moon boots'. "No."

"Exactly, so I can't really get on up there." He pulled a large, golden star from the box. All sharp edges and sparkled glass.

Synapses fired, and Russia got the message. America needed help. But he was America, as wily and independent and ever, and he'd be damned before he flat out asked for it. Instead, he'd developed a system of hints and carefully worded requests, and Russia prided himself on having a talent for deciphering the code.

Without a word, Russia went to America, his hands finding their way to America's waist, resting on their sides. He gave a single squeeze, a momentary digging of nails into flesh, and relaxed. He'd done this before, knew what to expect.

Once upon a time, Russia had taken America to the ballet. And America, with his desire to perform all things awe-inspiring, had immediately asked Russia for one-on-one lessons in the art of the dance. Russia had been only too happy to oblige, his heart fit to burst with happiness every time he saw America do his best to perform even a single pirouette.

Sooner than later, America's need for instant gratification had kicked in, and finding that he wasn't the most talented ballet dancer to ever exist in the entire world after two weeks of daily lessons, he stopped wanting to dance. But at least they had gotten the most basic lifts down, even if America did tend to squirm like a puppy if he was held too long. Russia didn't blame him, finding it rather disconcerting himself when the tables were turned. That had been his one victory over America, convincing him that he was not to do the lifting, but instead the liftee.

"You plannin' to wait around all day or what?" America teased, breaking Russia's reminiscence.

"Ah, my apologies." And with a sudden surge of strength, Russia had America's feet off the ground.

When he set America back down, the tree was adorned with the golden star, and America looked all the happier for it.

"See? It's loads better now."

Russia nodded. The tree did have a certain, rather polished quality now. A little pizazz that had been missing before. America always did have a good eye for the glamorous, somehow managing to take over the top things and tone them down, make them seem necessary.

Russia slipped an arm around America's waist, letting their hips bump together once before coming to rest against one another. America nuzzled against Russia's shoulder, making a soft, contented noise as the two of them stood side by side, taking in the glowing lights of the tree and the sparkling of its ornaments.

"And to think," America murmured, his voice low and lazy, "that it's only September."

* * *

A/N:

-Written for alatherna of livejournal for the Secret Santa 2010 Exchange on the Russia/America community, with the prompt being "Christmas tree decorating. Crack and fluff."

-Ha ha, the prompt was to have Russia and America decorating the tree together. Way to be lazy, Russia. Oh well, at least you helped with the tree-topper.

-If there are any typos, be sure to let me know so I can buy you loads of presents in a sad attempt to buy your approval and affection.

Edit:

Edit: This story is supposed to take place in America. However, I have no idea where the heck it would be already be snowing and freezing cold in September. I had already written about half of this before figuring out how it would end (the line just popped into my head). I must ask you to forgive the absurdness of the weather and to suspend your disbelief, if it is not too much.


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